A Marked Man
by AmicableAlien
Summary: Staking out a dingy tavern in Warsaw with a loaded revolver in his pocket was not how Charles Blake imagined he would spend his diplomatic career in Poland. Post S-6.
1. Chapter 1

**›››› A MARKED MAN ‹‹‹‹**

 **Part One**

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 _ **A man is marked by the company he keeps**_

 _ **— Aesop**_

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 _Warsaw, 1925_

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When Charles Septimus Blake (the Right Honourable, etc., etc.) had thought very much about his new post as _attaché_ to the British Ambassador in Warsaw, it had not been an entertaining prospect.

The brand-new diplomat (how Eve Napier had laughed his head off at _that_ ) assumed his life would descend to the usual round of parties, small talk over wilting champagne flutes and petty intrigues between touchy consuls and their fussy, supercilious wives. A lifetime of pushing papers from Desk 'A' to Department 'B', squeezing his broad frame into his old naval dress blues and twiddling his capable thumbs in the rear-end of Europe.

"Someone blew the whistle on you, Charles, old man." Evelyn had observed one night at the Bachelor's Club, the institution to which both of them still belonged at that unhappy point. "You converted one field too many from meadow to corn. Pushed your pig ideas on a determined dairy-ist. Insulted the economies of the Lord Mayor's third cousin five times removed. You-"

The rest of his witticisms was lost in a tussle more reminiscent of the schoolroom than a gentleman's bar.

All the same, the point was well made. Charles Blake was a man marked by the black spot of political wilderness.

All he could hope, he had thought, was for Uncle Severus to die and force his recall from the plains of Poland to the misty bogs of Kilclief Castle in County Down.

So, finding himself loitering in a dark corner of a cobbled side-street in Praga Północ at two in the morning with a loaded pistol concealed in the pocket of his greatcoat and the vague instructions of his enigmatic superior butting gently at his ears, was, Charles reflected, a bit of a shock to that comfortable vision of tediousness.

He dragged in the bite of nicotine from his Sobranie cigarette and resisted the urge to stamp his feet. Poland in early April was a great deal colder than any winter he could remember in Ireland or England. Even with the heavy tweed of his greatcoat, the chill sneaked through to trail icy fingers along his bones.

From across the street, through the mist of half-hearted snowflakes, the lights of the dingy bar were barely visible. As in keeping with most of the buildings in this district known as Warsaw's 'Bermuda Triangle', the basement bar and the building that crouched above it, was shabby and peeling. Someone, fifty years ago, had slapped paint across the lower half, made an attempt to decorate the windows with murals and gilded curlicues. It had been a meagre effort then and, now, was worse than if it had never been touched at all.

From the newspaper-stuffed windowholes, shouts and wailing violins seeped into the silent street. Glasses smashed but, Charles was certain even after his first few weeks here, not a drop of vodka was spilt. He wondered if Marek was drunk. It would be inconvenient if that was so.

Fifteen minutes past two o'clock. The great bell in St Florian's cathedral, several streets away, bonged one mighty chime.

The door of the basement cellar bar slammed back on its hinges. A glow appeared over the lip of the steps, filtered around the stumbling figure of a man. Charles stiffened. He dropped the glowing butt of his cigarette to the gutter.

Marek Nowak was a slight man, a pen-pusher in all respects. His one gift, so Charles had been told, was that he was so accomplished at pushing his pen, he did so as the private secretary of the German ambassador of the new Weimar Republic in Warsaw. As such, he was privy to all the briefings that passed under the ambassador's nose. Official and ... not so official.

It was as a result of the latter correspondance that Charles was freezing his toes to icicles on the shadows of a dirty, run-down street instead of sipping chilled champagne or warmed brandy at the Embassy residence. It turned out that Nowak enjoyed pushing cards as well as his pen, albeit without the same level of success: he was in debt up to his eyeballs.

What better way for a high-placed diplomatic aide to garner a fistful of ready cash but to sell secrets to the opposition?

In England, the war had been over for nearly seven years. Here in Poland, where the bitterness of their treatment at the recent Locarno conference still rankled, it continued. In the shadows. In secret. But, like a black rat stealing through the sewers underground, it spread itself through every facet of normal life.

This business of secrets- stealing them, selling them, keeping them hidden- was firewood that kept the slender flames of old enmities thriving. Poland distrusting Germany. Germany distrusting Russia. Everyone distrusting the French.

Britain, stuck in the middle of the continental squabblers, flailed from here to there. Trying, through the muddle of information available, to make logical sense out of the Byzantine relations of the different European powers, both old and- in the case of the Second Polish Republic, founded in 1919- breathtakingly new.

It made Charles's head ache and his stomach crunch with fear if he thought on the mess too long. One of several reasons he cursed Dansey for entrusting him with this mission in the first place.

The shadowy Passport Control Officer had accosted him while he was on his way back to his digs and casually asked if Charles could do him a favour. A delicate matter, the balding soldier had murmured, his moustache twitching over the words. Nothing in particular but needing the attention of someone higher up than a simple flunkey.

It took an effort for Charles to restrain his sarcastic tongue long enough to garner a few details from the close-mouthed shadow. Claude Dansey had a way of skimming his eyes over Charles's face and form that felt as though every flaw, every poor decision and ill-advised loutish breach of etiquette was on display. There was only one other person capable of summoning that response.

It was fortunate for Dansey, Charles grimaced, that Warsaw had far fewer pigsties available than Yorkshire.

Charles wrapped his coat tighter about his torso. He stepped out into the street, brushing close by the walls to keep away from the scattered street lamps. Nowak had no such qualms. He weaved in and out between the pools of wavering lights like he was trying to waltz.

There was little doubt. The prospect of treason had driven the man directly into the bottle. Wonderful.

Was it too much to ask for a traitor to maintain even the _veneer_ of professional villainy? As it was, Charles was hard-pressed not to reach out and shake the silly blighter by the shoulder and send him home with a scolding and no more.

He inhaled tiredly. The crisp night air was tinged with rotting fruit and horsedung. In this part of the ancient city, the number of motor cars were few and far more expensive than the cost of a horse and dray. Charles quickened his steps, impatient to be away and back to his warm, comfortable rooms.

"Nowak!"

The man started. He turned with a stumble, his coat flapping in the chill breeze. His spectacles dribbled down his nose and he blinked down the cobbled street to Charles as though he was a ghost.

Charles strode towards the smaller man. He held out his hands, the way an old friend would. The Polish words sounded strange as he wrapped his tongue around the unusual pronunciations. "My friend, _mój przyjaciel_ , wait. I must-"

The sharp _crack_ of a gunshot snapped his plea in two.

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 **Charles Blake - agricultural reformer, hardcore mudder... spy?**

 **When I read that Julian Fellowes had 'shipped' (see what I did there? Hah-ha ;) ) the most dashing of Mary's Men off to Poland, it was only a short leap in my head from there to ' _Spies of Warsaw'_ and David Tennant sneaking around looking at German Panzer movements. **

**Because of all of them, Charles seems the type to step away from his expected role in life and embrace a bit of 'outside-the-box' operations. And he did get some experience of sneaking around when he tip-toed down to the kitchens with Mary.**

 **I hope you enjoyed reading this! Please check it out again when Part 2 appears in the not-so-distant future!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A MARKED MAN**

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 _Warsaw, 1925_

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Nowak screamed.

A searing pain, like a scorching poker streaking across his naked flesh, cut into Charles's hip. He swore and spun. His hand scrabbled for the pocket of his greatcoat. The revolver bounced against his leg, a useless, metal lump hidden in voluminous tweed.

A second gunshot rang out. Nowak dropped to the dirty cobbles in a flurry of coat-tails. Charles crouched down. His eyes scanned the dim streets around him, his brain scrambling to pick out the trajectory of the bullet.

By a miracle, he found his way into the pocket of his greatcoat. He dragged the revolver clear. The dull grey barrel glinted in the light from the dim street lamp. His fingers were steady as he cocked the gun to firing mode. A relic of a war he thought was far behind him. Crouched low in the street, the snow seeping through his coat and trousers, Charles turned back to the dimness and-

A third shot. The flash spat out from a doorway halfway down. Charles jerked back the trigger.

His revolver kicked in his hand. The bullet spat out. There was a sharp crack of recoil. A cry of pain.

A hit.

Gritting his teeth against the grinding pain burning along his hip, Charles turned his back on Nowak's trembling lump on the Warsaw street cobbles. He limped down the street in a quick-step shuffle. The revolver he kept cocked in his hand. There could be others, more guns, more bullets.

The shouts from the bar echoed behind him. From a dim distance, Charles heard the crunch of snow being trod down underfoot. Nowak? He glanced back over his shoulder. The stunted pen-pusher blinked back at him, his eyes owlishly large behind the spectacles.

Charles turned his shoulder on the traitorous fool and pushed to the shadows of the side-alley.

Unlike Charles, this man was dressed to be a killer. Dark clothes merged with the soot-stained walls and pools of darkness in between the street lamps. He smelt of the tanneries, a sharp, alkaline smell that made Charles wrinkle his nose and recoil a little on instinct. Gritting his teeth, he pushed forward to where the man slumped in the light. The harsh rattle of breath and the darting, dilated eyes told Charles his attacker was still alive. Just.

The revolver was on the ground. The impact of Charles's shot had thrown it from the attacker's hand. Charles kicked it backward into the street. He had learnt enough in his time with the navy to know that dying men could surge with an unexpected force of life as the chill fingers of death closed about their throats.

A gurgle, thick and sticky like a drowning man fighting the waves, rose from the attacker. He reached but Charles shoved his arms aside. With rough strokes, he frisked the other man. He wore no other weapons, a fact Charles noticed with relief. There was a packet in an inside pocket, a barely-discernible ridge over the jacket. Charles pulled open the dark coat. His fingers brushed the tell-tale dampness that spread across the man's chest from the mid-point of his stomach.

For the second time, Charles appreciated the man's foresight in wearing only dark clothing. He was an experienced soldier, had served in the navy during the war. Sill, the knowledge that he was brushing his hands over blood, that when he turned his palms over they would be stained red...

He swallowed back the bile and dug into the pocket. A packet of papers, the edges tipped in red, appeared. Holding them up to the street lamp, Charles inspected them as best he could in the dim light. When he saw the print, his mind went blank with surprise.

A grunt moaned from the man beside him. The arm Charles had shoved away half-rose in protest. " _Nyet..."_

So it was true.

Charles looked from the red star emblazoned on the front of the packet to the man dying on the street beside him. At the back of his mind, he knew he did not have much time. Anyone could have heard the exchange of gunfire and, volatile as Warsaw was, it still had a working and able police force. He was on borrowed time, scarce borrowed time, but he could not resist grabbing the assassin beside him, dragging his blood-spittled mouth closer.

" _Russkiy_?" He demanded. "Russian? Who sent you? _Kto..._ Damn it, _kto v-v-vas poslal_?"

The man inhaled, a wet, sucking sound. The blood was starting to fill his lungs. Pale eyes, like tiny white pebbles, rolled in his face. It would be few seconds before the full effect of the bullet stole away the last breath in his body and all information vanished to the ether.

" _Russkiy?_ " Charles demanded again, gripping the oily lapels of the man's jacket. "Who are you? _Kto ty?_ _Kto-_ "

The Russian inhaled again, his eyes staring up beyond Charles' shoulders. His head twisted to the side, a futile attempt to get away. Charles tightened his fists on the lapels, praying for time, praying he got the information out if it was the last thing he did on this filthy earth, the very last thing...

A gun cocked so close to his ear, the metallic click fused in his brain.

"Stand up." Nowak. No longer screaming, no longer terrified and with the dying Russian's revolver clutched between two shaking hands.

"Stand up, _ty skurwysynu,_ or I will kill you."

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 **An update! It's been sitting in my lap for a while now but I finally have made enough progress with part 3 to feel happy about publishing (!).**

 **Also, if you don't enjoy bad language, please don't google translate the words in italics, haha! Although I had a bit of fun googling appropriate curse words in Polish and Russian ... whiled away a good hour... ;-D**

 **Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!**


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